


Period Pain

by WritingsOfAHobbit



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blood where there shouldn't be blood, F/M, Period Cramps, lots of blood, period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingsOfAHobbit/pseuds/WritingsOfAHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Imagine Bard looking after you when you have period cramps</p>
            </blockquote>





	Period Pain

The pain is unbearable, as it always is on the first day.However today seems far worse than it has been before. It feels as though there is a poisoned knife buried in your gut, which is being twisted at random intervals. Not even your steady breathing, perfected over the years to help you overcome most pain, is helping.

You draw your knees up to your chest, groaning into your pillow as the pain ripples between your hips. As you move the fabric of your sleeping clothes rubs against your thighs, and you realise that if you want to save the bedding, you’re going to have to get up.

It’s painful to stand, but if you lay in bed for too long then the fabric will stain. Your husband would certainly not appreciate that.

With trembling hands you carefully strip the sheets of the bed, pleased to find that the blood hasn’t soaked through to the mattress. You stumble down the stairs to the private dock under the house. On the way you grab your day clothes and a towel, as well as a rag for washing.

Walking is uncomfortable and the wet fabric of your trousers chaffs horribly. You take them off as soon as you reach the dock, wrapping the towel around your waist. The cold seeps in through every fabric of clothing and you’re soon chilled to the bone. The cold only intensifies when you plunge your hands into the ever-icy water.

It takes nearly half an hour to clean the bed sheets and your trousers, by which time your hands are so cold you can barely feel them, your thighs are sticky with blood and you’re in absolute agony. All you want to do is curl up in a ball and cry.

You hear the front door open and close upstairs, then your husband call your name. You don’t answer. You are embarrassed by your state and you don’t want him to see you suffering.

Your silence is to no avail.

“What are you doing down here?” Bard descends the stairs to the docks, his heavy coat flapping behind him. He spies your shaking hands, blue-tinted fingers and chattering teeth and promptly flies into ‘over protective husband’ mode. “What are you doing?” he rushes to your side, pulling your hands away from wet fabric and rubbing them with his own, much warmer, hands as he kneels in front of you.

“Laundry.” You reply with a wince. It’s not technically a lie but it’s not technically the truth.

Bard gives you an incredulous look, attempting to pull you close. You fight against him, as every movement causes more ‘leaking’ and it’s a truly horrible feeling. You’re sure you smell of blood and the thought of him smelling it is truly mortifying.

You should explain to Bard what’s going on, but you’ve only been married a few weeks and you really don’t want to have to put him through this. He’s been through so much in his life and this is one detail he can be spared from.

Bard looks over the ‘laundry’ with a sceptical look, then eyes you closely. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He says eventually.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Your bleeding.” He says, as though he deals with exactly the same thing every month. “Go upstairs and get cleaned up. I’ll sort this stuff out.”

You smile gratefully at him, carefully standing up and easing yourself back up the stairs. You silently pray that the blood has not yet run down your thighs to your calves, or pooled on the wood of the dock.

Once upstairs you heat a small amount of water over the fire before washing the blood from your thighs. It takes a good few minutes of scrubbing to remove the dried stuff, and it seems almost futile as you just continue to bleed.

As soon as the worst of it is mopped up you pad into the bedroom and rummage around in the wardrobe. At the back is a large sheet of torn fabric. You rip off some more pieces to line your underwear and catch the blood. You then find the loosest dress you have, forgo the belt and head back into the living room.

Bard is already there, hanging the sheets and your trousers up by the fire. You fight off the blush of embarrassment at the thought of him scrubbing away at your blood.

“Thank you.” You say quietly, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You resist the urge to double over and fist your hands in the fabric of your dress.

Bard smiles pityingly at you, moving to stand in front of you. He kisses your forehead gently before pulling you into a tight, warm hug. “Have you taken anything for the pain?” he asks as he rests his chin on your hear and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

You shake your head against his chest, your arms still pinned against your stomach. “Forgot to buy more.” You mumble against his shirt, cringing at how pitiful you sound.

“What do you usually take?”

“Cramp Bark and Black Haw. If not that then Black Cohosh.”

Bard squeezes you lightly, kisses the top of your head and steps away. “I’ll go down to the markets and get some.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. You’re my wife and my responsibility.” He smiles gently, tilting your chin up. “I’ll be back shortly.” He kisses you swiftly before making a bee-line for the market.

As soon as he is gone you make your way to the sofa in front of the fireplace and curl up in a ball, focussing on easing your breathing to help with the pain.

It doesn’t take long for Bard to return and he wastes no time in preparing the herbs. You don’t ask where he’s learnt so much about monthly bleeding, but you suppose his mother must have taught him something before she passed away.

You open your eyes when Bard strokes your hair. He’s kneeling in front of you with a cup of the pain relief. He urges you into a sitting position and waits patiently as you swallow the herbs.

When you’re done Bard sets the cup aside and takes a seat next to you on the sofa. “I’ve never seen you suffer like this before.” He says as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close.

“You’re usually working.” You mumble in reply, wrapping your own arms around his waist. “I thought you were today.”

“The barrels came early.” He shrugs. “Not many to collect.” He once again rests his head on yours, hands moving in soothing circular motions on your shoulder and him. “Is it usually this bad?”

“Mm hm.” You nod against his chest, holding him tightly.

“I am sorry. Can you predict when these start?”

“Usually.”

“Tell me in the future. I will try to come home early.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. “You don’t need to do that.” You assure him.

“Of course I do.” He leans down and presses his forehead to you. “You’re my wife. It’s my duty to look after you.”

“Your duty?” you quirk and eyebrow and Bard rolls his eyes.

“My duty as a husband to the wife that I love, yes.” He pulls you closer and bends his head to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “Never will you suffer alone. I’ll be here through the worst of it.”

“Thank you.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”


End file.
